by Paul Gitsham
The room was a small twin, the two single beds currently rolled together to form a double, the mattress already seized for analysis. To the left of the entrance, an open door led to a tiny bathroom with a sink, toilet and a miniscule shower cubicle that Ruskin would have struggled to fit into.
The walls were painted a neutral beige, with a brightly coloured abstract print above the bed; the window overlooked the car park. In the corner, there was an open-frame wardrobe, with two shelves taking up the bottom third and a clothes rail above. A small shelf at the top had an iron and miniature ironing board. It reminded Warren of his room during his first year at university, although his digs hadn’t had a flatscreen television mounted on the wall opposite the bed. Beneath the TV, with barely enough space for a large adult to squeeze between it and the bed, was a wooden desk with a selection of laminated menus and the hotel’s WiFi password. A numbered, yellow scene marker had been placed on the corner of the table. The plywood was chipped.
‘The desk has been wiped down, but the CSIs found traces of blood and a human hair caught in the split in the wood. They’ve sent the blood off for DNA matching,’ said Ruskin.
‘We have CCTV of him leaving the hotel the following morning, so if that’s where he hit his head, it can’t have been immediately fatal. Any reports of a disturbance?’
‘None, but it was quiet that night; all the adjacent rooms were unoccupied.’
‘What other trace evidence have they recovered?’
‘Hundreds of fingerprints, and they haven’t finished yet. The room has been cleaned since Anish stayed here, but it’s still pretty grubby; it’ll take days to process them all. They’ve also dismantled the sink trap and the shower’s drain, but they didn’t find anything interesting. It’s unlikely that we’ll be able to isolate any foreign DNA, even if we have a suspect.’
Warren had expected as much. Hotel rooms, by definition, were filled with strangers’ DNA and hair. The best they could hope for was a fingerprint that matched a suspect – but if their suspect worked in the hotel, then proving that there wasn’t a legitimate reason for the print to be at the crime scene could be extremely difficult.
‘What about drugs? We know Anish was getting cash from somewhere.’ If he had been dealing out of the room, then perhaps there would be traces.
‘They’ve done some putative drug swabs, but there’s nothing beyond the usual background levels of cocaine you’d expect for a hotel that caters for a lot of stag and hen parties. If they were testing merchandise in here, either they were careful not to make a mess, or it’s been cleaned up since then.’
Warren looked over at the bed. ‘What about bedding and towels?’ The body had been wrapped in a sheet from the hotel, and the hammer and knife used to mutilate his body had been wrapped in a hotel towel.
‘According to the housekeeping log, there was nothing missing from the room. But there is a cupboard full of cleaning materials and spare linen down the corridor. Unfortunately, they don’t keep an inventory, but it is locked to stop guests pinching stuff. There’s no sign that the lock has been forced.’
‘Which means that if the killer did help themself, then they must have had access to those keys. Could this be an inside job?’
After one last look around the room, the two officers left, removing their gloves and booties.
‘Let’s see where these stairs lead,’ said Warren pushing through the fire door. It opened onto a vestibule, with bare metal steps heading up to the next floor and down to the ground level. The two men’s shoes rang out as they descended.
At the bottom of the stairwell, there were three doors. The first, directly opposite the stairs had a narrow window with safety glass showing a glimpse of the reception area beyond. At the other end of the short corridor, a metal door with a steel crash bar was marked with a fire exit sign. To its left, a door without a window was staff only.
Warren shrugged and pushed his way in. Immediately, his nose was met by the smell of cooked breakfast, as the two officers entered the kitchen. A man in chef’s whites and an apron looked up from the sink where he was washing a large metal pan.
‘Hey, staff only. Can’t you read?’
Warren flashed his warrant card. ‘Do you mind if we ask you a few questions, Mr …?’
The man carefully placed the steel pan down on the draining board. He looked at Warren and Ruskin, licked his lips then shrugged.
‘Sure. Nicholas Kimpton.’
Warren glanced around the kitchen. Two more steel pans, one crusted with the remains of scrambled eggs, the other with what looked like scraps of bacon, were piled to the left of him.
‘Is it just you working here today?’ asked Warren.
‘Yeah. I have a lad who helps out during the setup, but he’s finished for the morning. Muggins here has to clean up. He’ll be back in to help with the evening shift.’
Warren showed him the screen of his phone. ‘Do you recognise this man?’
Kimpton glanced at it. ‘I’ve already been asked this. No, I don’t. I stay in the kitchen. The girls set the food out and bring in the dirty pans.’
Warren gestured towards the door that they’d just entered. ‘Do the serving staff use that to come and go?’
Kimpton shook his head. ‘No, that just leads to the emergency stairs and the fire exit,’ he pointed to the other side of the kitchen at a pair of double-doors with eye-level windows. ‘Those are the serving doors, they lead into the back of the dining area.’
‘So, you can’t get in and out of the building through that door?’
‘Well, you can in an emergency obviously, but the fire door’s alarmed. There’s another door around the back of the fridges that leads onto the loading bay. Staff use that or reception when they finish their shift.’
‘What time does the evening shift end?’ asked Ruskin.
Kimpton sighed. ‘We stop serving food at half-nine. If it’s been a quiet night and we’ve managed to stack the dishwasher by then, I can be out of here a little after ten.’
‘Then back first thing in the morning?’ asked Ruskin.
‘Yeah, the joy of split-shifts. Look, I’m sorry, but I really need to get on. I’m supposed to be taking my little girl out for the day, and my ex gets really pissy if I turn up late.’
‘Of course, I won’t keep you any longer,’ said Warren. He and Ruskin turned and walked back through the door that they had entered.
‘He claims that people don’t use this door,’ said Warren quietly, once it had closed behind them, ‘but look at the floor, it’s covered in shoe prints. You said that there was no movement on the loading bay camera?’
‘Nothing. The last thing it picked up was a delivery van at four o’clock that afternoon.’
Warren pondered that for a moment.
‘There’s something that bothers me,’ said Ruskin. ‘If staff don’t come in and out of the fire door because it has an alarm, how come there are so many cigarette ends on the floor outside it?’ He bent over. ‘And why is there a folded piece of cardboard in the shape of a doorstop lying here?’
‘Exactly what I am wondering,’ said Warren. ‘I think it’s time we brought in a few members of staff for a little chat, starting with our new friend, Nicholas Kimpton.’
Chapter 18
‘Sir, we’ve just had a call come in on the tip line.’ Rachel Pymm waved the printed message as Warren returned to the office. ‘It’s from Middlesbury Rental Vehicles, I have the details from the call-taker here.’
Warren looked at the note. ‘It says here that Anish hired a car from them the day he checked into the hotel.’ He frowned. ‘There was nothing on his bank statements to indicate that he hired a car. Surely he can’t have used cash?’
‘That’s what I thought, so I called his credit card company directly. Apparently, there was a ring-fenced sum of £500 placed on the card that day. It was then removed two days later. That’s why it wasn’t on his statement. They suggest that he probably used cash for the rental, but us
ed his card for the deposit. If he returned the car in good condition with a full tank, they won’t have taken any of it.’
‘Great work, Rachel.’ He looked around the office, spying Hardwick who’d just arrived after dropping her son at his grandparents’. ‘Thanks for coming in on a rest day, Karen. Can you go and speak to a Mr Latham at Middlesbury Rental Vehicles?’
‘Delighted to, it’s far too stuffy in here.’
Warren turned back to Pymm. ‘Moray and I just met somebody interesting. Can you run a Nicholas Kimpton through the PNC.’
‘Way ahead of you, boss. I received a list of all the employees from the Easy Break Hotel this morning and he’s already come up. And he’s not the only one.’
‘Give me details,’ said Warren, as he removed his coat. He could sympathise with Hardwick’s desire for fresh air; the building’s elderly thermostat thought it was a lot colder outside than it actually was.
‘Kimpton is thirty-two years old and has multiple convictions for dealing drugs and aggravated assault. He’s worked in the kitchen since last year, when they fired the old chef after the food-poisoning incident. He does a split-shift, working the breakfast buffet, then comes back in the evening and does bar food, six days a week.’
‘Ouch, that’s a long week,’ said Ruskin.
‘Welcome to the world of catering,’ said Hutchinson. ‘Why do you think I joined the police?’
‘He’s certainly worth a look,’ said Warren. ‘Who else?’
‘Leon Grime. He’s in charge of maintenance and also has a record, with two short sentences for drug dealing. We’ve nothing on the computer since 2000.’
‘I’d be very interested to see if anything’s missing from his toolkit,’ said Warren, ‘and that beige paint that covers every wall in the hotel looks a lot like the drips on the tools we found.’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ said Pymm.
Warren turned to David Hutchinson. ‘Hutch, organise teams to bring in Nicholas Kimpton and Leon Grime for questioning.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Keep it low key, try not to spook them. Make out it’s just routine questioning to help with our enquiries. Whilst you’re at it, speak to the CSIs at the hotel. See if they’ve located Leon Grime’s toolkit.’
Nicholas Kimpton was not impressed when he was invited into the station for an interview. His ex-partner, who had to cancel her own plans to look after their daughter, was apparently even less happy.
‘Thank you for coming in, Mr Kimpton,’ said Warren. Beside him, Moray Ruskin sat immobile, a notepad in front of him.
‘You are not under arrest, but we will be recording this interview. You are free to leave at any time, or request legal representation.’ He paused. ‘I’m sure you know the drill.’
Kimpton scowled at the subtle dig. ‘Yes, I know how this works.’
‘Well let’s start off by talking about Thursday the 24th of November. What times did you work that day?’
‘I did a split-shift. I started breakfast at about five-past six for a six-thirty start. We prepare most of it the night before. Everything was cleared away and most of the prep for the evening done by about eleven, when I went home. I then came back in at half-five,’ Kimpton scowled. ‘I already told you this.’
‘Sorry, Mr Kimpton, I’m just getting it on the record.’
‘Fine,’ muttered Kimpton, although his scowl didn’t ease.
‘So, was it just you?’ asked Warren.
‘Not all the time. Shane, the kitchen hand, started a bit after quarter past six, then left just after eight to catch the bus to college.’
‘What about the evening shift?’ asked Ruskin.
‘I got the ball rolling about half-five, then Shane joined me about a quarter of an hour later when he finished college.’
‘Tell me about Shane,’ said Warren.
Kimpton shrugged. ‘Not much to tell really. He’s a good lad. He’s doing catering at Middlesbury College and he works here mornings and evenings to earn a bit of cash and get some experience on his CV.’ Kimpton scratched his chin. ‘For the last few months he’s done the Tuesday on his own since he doesn’t have college then, so I finally get a day off. To be honest, I don’t think he’ll be here much longer.’
‘Oh? Why do you say that?’ asked Warren.
‘He’s got talent, he’s wasted here. I reckon as soon as he passes his driving test he’ll be applying to restaurants.’ For the first time since his arrest, Kimpton’s scowl was replaced with a smile. ‘I’ll be sorry to see him go, but I’ll give him a bloody good reference.’ The smile faded. ‘Reminds me a bit of myself at that age …’
Warren was in no mood to hear Kimpton lamenting how his poor choices had derailed his own career. ‘Was there anything unusual about that Thursday evening?’
Kimpton stuck his bottom lip out and gave a half-shrug. ‘Not that I recall, typical weekday night.’ A brief flash of something crossed his face. Irritation? Bitterness? ‘We ain’t exactly a Michelin-starred kitchen with complex orders cooked to the customer’s precise instructions. Burgers, chips, reheated lasagnes and curries; aside from the occasional allergy note, or request to swap the chips for a jacket potato, that’s about as complicated as it gets. It’s why I trust Shane on Tuesdays.’
‘So, a bit different to what you’re used to do then?’ asked Ruskin.
Kimpton sat back in his chair and glared at the two men. ‘Yes, very different. We all know why I’m here.’
‘Why is that, Nicholas?’ asked Warren.
‘Because I did time. Because when I was a kid, I was a fucking idiot and decided to make a little extra money on the side dealing drugs out of the kitchen where I was working.’
‘That wasn’t the only reason,’ said Warren mildly.
‘Yeah, well that was bullshit. I got a bit greedy and took more merch than I could sell and pay for immediately. They sent in somebody to collect, and things got a bit heavy. What was I supposed to do? Let them cut a finger off over five hundred quid?’
‘So, you got your retaliation in first?’ said Ruskin.
‘I didn’t have any choice, did I?’
It was a somewhat sanitised and down-played version of what had been recorded on the computer, but they weren’t there to rehash old offences.
Kimpton leaned forward, his tone bitter. ‘Look, I was a stupid kid, and I paid the price, OK? I spent nearly two years in prison and went from working in the best hotels in the area, alongside some of the best chefs in the country, to working split-shifts serving pre-made scrambled eggs and frozen burgers in a bloody fleapit. I only have this job because they were desperate after the last dickhead they hired nearly killed a whole wedding party.’ He rubbed his eyes, his tone suddenly weary, ‘Look, this job is the first decent one I’ve had since leaving prison. I have my little girl to think of now; I’m hardly going to throw that away by killing some random bloke, am I?’
‘A random bloke you claim never to have met.’ said Warren.
‘Why would I? I never meet the guests. I just come in, do my job then go home.’
Warren waited a beat. ‘OK, fair enough. What time did you leave that night?’
‘As I said before, I finished a bit after ten.’
‘And how did you get home?’ asked Ruskin.
‘I cycle. I only live a few miles away, and the exercise does me good. Besides, the buses cost a fortune and they’re never on time.’
Warren frowned and made a show of flicking through his notes. ‘I don’t see any record of a cyclist coming in and out of the reception area.’
‘You wouldn’t. I come in through the gap in the hedge by the service road.’
‘Ah, where the camera is broken.’
Kimpton paused. ‘I wouldn’t know about that.’
‘I assume that you lock your bike to the railings in the staff car park, and enter through the loading bay?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘So how do you leave? We have footage of you coming in through there that night, but noth
ing of you leaving.’
Kimpton licked his lips but said nothing.
‘In fact, we’ve replayed all of the footage for the past week, and whilst we see you coming in through the loading bay at the start of your shifts, we haven’t seen you exit once, by either the loading bay or the main reception. How are you leaving the building, Nicholas?’
Warren and Ruskin sat silently. Kimpton folded his hands in his lap, but not before Warren saw the slight tremble, and the faint sheen of sweat they left behind on the table’s smooth surface.
Eventually, Kimpton cleared his throat. ‘The alarm on the fire exit hasn’t worked for months. I leave through there.’
‘The fire exit under the broken CCTV camera?’ asked Warren.
‘If you say so.’
‘And have you reported the broken alarm?’
He paused. ‘Not really.’
Warren made a noise at the back of his throat. ‘I see. Not really. Why not?’
Kimpton licked his lips. ‘Just lazy, I guess. It’s easier to leave through that door.’
‘Is that all?’ asked Warren.
‘And you can go out there for a crafty fag.’
‘Because the CCTV cameras are broken and no one can see you?’
‘Yes,’ Kimpton’s voice was soft.
‘How did you know?’ asked Ruskin.
‘How did I know what?’
‘That the cameras are broken and the alarm doesn’t work?’
Kimpton paused. Warren could see that his mind was spinning furiously. ‘I overheard someone mention it.’
‘Who?’ pressed Ruskin.
‘I can’t remember.’
‘He knows he’s backed himself into a corner,’ said Sutton, who along with the rest of the team had been watching the interview remotely.
‘He has form for violence and drug dealing,’ said Ruskin. ‘If Anish was visiting that hotel on a regular basis to pick up drugs, maybe Kimpton is his supplier? Maybe they got into some sort of disagreement.’ His voice grew more excited. ‘That comment about losing a finger over five hundred quid was interesting, especially given what happened to Anish.’
Ruskin looked around the room, and his enthusiasm dimmed.